Sunday, June 12, 2011

"He who does not love his own language is worse than an animal and smelly fish." - Dr. Jose Rizal

Growing up as a Filipina abroad can often feel like being a contestant on a quiz show. Yet in comparison to those kind of shows where the participant is required to give one exact answer only, I sometimes need to think twice before answering the very simple question: "So, where do you come from?" My replies, depending on the situation, range from "I am from the Philippines" to "I am a Filipina who grew up in Geneva" to "I was born in Switzerland but I am originally from the Philippine Islands."

As the years went by and I had the opportunity to live in different countries, the answers became more and more elaborate. I am a Swiss-born Filipina but lived in this and that country for a certain period of time and I am currently residing in... People either get very intrigued or tired, depending on the conversation, by the time I finish the second sentence. It would be nice to keep the answers easy and short, but the bottom line is that I feel like I must mention every single detail for people to really understand who I am.

Despite the fact that my explanations frequently varied, it dawned on me that something remained the same all this time. I am Filipina. Because no matter which destination I have been to, where I am right now and wherever my feet will take me; I always took pride in my heritage and my ability to share where I come fromwith people around the globe.

In truth, it is because of my wonderful family -- in particular my parents and my grandmother -- that my roots play such an immense role in shaping and defining my identity. My parents quickly understood that living abroad could make things a little complicated since my siblings and I were goingto grow up abroad. Of course we needed to fit in with our environment but at the same time, they made sure to teach us our cultural background, help us remember our traditions and know all about the history and Greatest of our country. More importantly, if I were asked to name the one thing I am so very proud of, I will definitely say that my family did us right by teaching us Tagalog.

The importance of language

One of the most significant topics that Filipino parents who emigrate must deal with is the importance of language. They stand before a crucial decision: Will we teach our children Pilipino? This question might appear trivial to some but it is a harsh reality that a number of parents do not go the extra mile to teach their children Pilipino. Indeed, many of the next generations who grow up abroad -- a lot of them are cousins and good friends of mine -- do not speak the language. Some do not even understand it at all. I do not blame them because it is clearly not their fault. In any case, to be completely frank, I find that fact abominating and simultaneously, I cannot fully grasp why this occurs. Usual reasons -- or dare I say excuses -- I hear are "My children could get confused if they speak French, German, Swedish or Russian at school and Pilipino at home" and "They do not really need to speak Pilipino." First of all, I believe it is nonsense to think children will be confused because they learn different languages at the same time, not to mention it is underestimating their abilities to learn. The point is that the only way they can be taught is through their parents and they will learn the local language by being around others anyway. After all, children are gifted and fast learners. Secondly, how could people feel like their children do not need to learn the Pilipino language? What happens when they fly back home and wish to communicate -- in particular with elders who do not necessarily speak English?

The only valid reason I can find for not educating youngsters is that parents simply do not care enough. Or is it maybe because they are overwhelmed by their own yet 'complicated' language? Are they not proud of being Filipino? Or do they consider their children not Filipino because they were born abroad? I feel strongly about this subject not only because my family taught me just how important it is to be fluent in Pilipino but because I, myself, assume it is a pity to not even speak the language of your parents (even if it is only your mother's or father's!) -- it is your own language in the end. I reckon that if your parents do not push you enough, then it is your responsibility to make the effort. After all, language is the doorway to acknowledging and understanding your legacy. It is something you can take pride in, it is an asset you must value with your whole heart. The best thing about knowing the language is that people will praise you for it -- especially because you grew up abroad. Once more, you might not have lived in your home country but it is no reason (or excuse) to forget where you are from.

Best of both worlds

On the other hand, I must admit that growing up as a Filipina abroad can also be quite tricky at times. You are Filipino but you live here. You wonder who you really are and must find ways to describe it. But in time and with experience, I learned once again that it is by appreciating your origins i.e. you own language and culture first that enabled me to discover who I am. "He who does not know how to look back at where he came from will never get to his destination" Dr. Jose Rizal. Meanwhile, I perceive what is so great and special about living in a foreign country: by exploring the city you grew up in and the places you have been to; you grasp that these factors forge your entire being as well. Without doubt, obviously, I am a proud Filipina but I am also very thankful for having been given the chance to be abroad. All these years I spend in lovely Switzerland and every time I moved to a new city, I made sure to learn the language, get to know the culture and fit in with its people as well. I am assured that it is equally important. I am extremely lucky because I manage to mix both: I am Filipina and I blend in. Having the best of both worlds is a treasure, never considered a hindrance. In the end, this diversity creates the new breed of Filipinos.

Friday, June 10, 2011

The story behind the Red Cup goes back a number of years ago. It all begins with a young woman – this full-of-life yet sensitive, quite edgy young woman, who decides to spend the summer of her eighteenth birthday in a small town called Magallanes, situated in the beautiful province of Cavite, Philippines. Although she had never resided in Magallanes, she had been to this familiar place countless times before: it was, after all, the hometown. But little did the young woman know that this stay was not going to be quite the usual. In fact, everything about her whole world was about to make a little more sense.

The ingredients of that summer were very simple: waking up every morning at five a.m., feeding the poultry, working in the bukid, time to read or/and watch a little television, lunchtime, afternoons were spent visiting relatives and neighbours, going for a walk in the bayan; and/or the siesta always worked magic. five p.m. was again the time to feed the poultry; followed by dinner while watching the evening news. Finally, it was straight to bed…. very early. Every day the same, every day… the same. Although one would agree that this vacation was not filled with the most exciting activities, which, in fairness, wasthe case, this 18 year-old had the best of time simply being in the company of her favorite person on earth, her idol and mentor, the woman of her life: none other than her beloved grand-mother. Indeed, there were no spectacular occasions and none was actually needed, the young woman found peace and serenity just by participating in her grand-mother's everyday life.

It was between (and during) all these activities that something quite marvelous happened. As soon as the young woman, Nicole, and her grand-mother were about to share a cup of coffee, she would hear all about her grand-mother's experiences. They didn't follow a specific chronological order: some stories were hilarious, other made her shed a tear or two. A few of them she had heard before, on the other hand, new details were added to those already known stories; and there was always something new that made this young woman smile deep, deep inside. Talking and listening carefully to the stories of her grand-mother, retracing her steps was like walking in history.

Every time they reached for a cup of coffee would also be a lesson for Nicole to remember. And more than often, it was the most simple and frank, yet best advice one could ever get -- on life, love, failure, health, money, pride, family values, fear and what one should strive for in life. So when her grand-mother fell in love with the Nescaféred cup they saw on television, young Nicole knew right there and then, that she needed to get it for her. For no reason. For all the reasons.

Unfortunately, the cup her grand-mother desired did not exist anymore and was not going to be reproduced in the future… So they said. Nicole could not believe it. Her grand-mother then told her that it was no problem, that it was okay. But it wasn't: it was out of the question for Nicole to give up. How could she? She then promised her grand-mother that whatever it takes, she will find the red cup, and bring it back to her. Nicole promised.

A few years went by and every place Nicole visited and lived in, from Stockholm to Berlin passing by Vilnius and Tallinn, it became very difficult as she could not find it... anywhere. Frustration was taking over slowly, the shops kept closing their doors as well as Nicole's hopes. They always sold red cups, never Nescaféred cups. Could they make one especially for us? No, of course not.

It was only while visiting Rome again that fate would strike. She ordered coffee -- yes, as usual, but to Nicole's biggest surprise, they served it in the infamous Nescafé red cup: the one she spent years looking for, the one her grand-mother wanted! She could not believe it. But it was true, Nicole was holding it tightly in her hands. She inquired, and requested where she could get exactly this one. Luckily enough, Rome still loved Nescaféred cups, and the smile her grand-mother gave her the second she received it turned into one of the greatest highlights in Nicole's life, and that image will remain in her head as vivid as ever. In the Red Cup history was written, in the Red Cup history awaits. The Red Cup symbolizes the reason why the present is a gift and it is a token to the bright future Nicole could -- and will -- never give up on, the future her grand-mother promised her. The Red Cup is love and joy. The Red Cup is hers... and mine.

Now every time I set foot in my grand-mother “Lola”’s house – which in this case, has been more than four years (that is way too long, undoubtedly)— but every single time I do, something quite marvelous happens. It's nothing fancy really, but it is the one place in the world where I feel totally secure and whole, where everything makes a little more sense. For one, I know that if I ever feel lost or broken, I know that her life experiences and lessons can keep me grounded. And more importantly, I know why retracing her steps -- not only by remembering them -- but actually walking in history with her marks why the story of our lives is so important to understand our own, my very own identity. All paths of my life lead back to where I come from: where my roots are. Lola, I never forget the Red Cup, I will always hold it tightly. Wherever I've been and the next destinations I will get to, the incredible and strong person that you are, your awe-inspiring life, your wise words and unconditional love: our Red Cup is forevermore my most precious possession. Pour me a little more coffee, will you? Salamat po, Lola.

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